


A River of Blood

by Redlux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Godswood, Green Boys, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Sweet Summer Children, War of the Five Kings, Winterfell, but not too slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlux/pseuds/Redlux
Summary: 'That weirwood tree stared. It challenged him: ‘drink,’ it seemed to whisper as it’s red leaves bristled and murmured in the cold northern wind. Theon brought the flagon to his lips and finished all of it; it tasted bitter-sweet, heavy, just like the five he had before it. He had never been a spiritual man.'Winterfell is far from the politics and intrigues of the capital. Blissfully unaware, Robb Stark soon must carry the burdens of rulership and command.But he is only a sweet summer child, and winter is comming.





	1. Godswood

Theon grunted as he spent himself, continuing to forcefully thrust during his pleasure.

‘That it, then?’ asked the whore, the red-headed one. He bit his lip, ignoring the intrusion, eking out every single penny he had spent for this, or rather, every penny he was going to spend; as the heir to the Iron Isles, he always insisted upon paying after. When he was finished, he pulled out his limp cock.

‘You always speak to your betters like that? I could have your tongue out.’ He was panting, skin sheened with sweat and musky sex, glowing red from the torches in the chamber. He stiffened his shoulders, to bring out the muscles of his chest and arms, but he scowled when she snorted after rolling over.

‘Do you _want_ me to lose my tongue, y’grace?’ She propped herself on her elbows and drew her tongue across her lips. He decided not to correct her address because, in the warm glow, the furs, the rich cracking of burning wood and the smell of her perfumes and his masculine scent, he was ready to fuck her all over again. But he was familiar with her coyness: she was mocking him.

‘I couldn’t care, so long as you respect your betters. You better keep it for your sake, your tongues about the only thing you’re good at using.’

She smiled at this, to his growing annoyance. She was amused, not frightened.

‘Of course, y’grace.’ She rolled from the furs and sat on a stool, taking wine from the table whilst wiping down her face, arms, tits. He was already putting on his furs, tightening his belt that he’d discarded in the rush to bed her.

When he was dressed he made for the chamber door but she made a tutting noise and he turned to see her motioning for her coin. He turned red. He, the heir to a great lord, should not have to pay for whores. They should be grateful enough that a noble even gave them a second look. But he remembered the last time he refused to pay: the prices for all the whores of Winterfell trebled for him. Not that coin was an issue, of course.

He pulled his coin-purse from his belt and tossed two gold dragons on the floor, then left.

    

*

 

He slipped quietly into Winterfell’s great hall whilst Robb and Maester Luwin continued to preside over audiences. It was late in the day and all were tired of the monotony, but Robb had always taken his duties seriously. Theon often teased him for his diligence, but the first son of the noble Lord Eddard Stark had always ignored it. So here they were now, seventh hour of duties, listening to some peasant from the hinterlands mewl on about grain.

‘—and we had to take the reserves, see, which only makes it worse because, m’lord, we have less to sow the for the next harvest.’

‘But the next harvest is almost here, how can you be low on grain now?’ asked Maester Luwin. The peasant was almost indignant. ‘The rains, Maester, they say Long Lake’s almost twice as deep, an’ all the waters led to rot. The wheat n’barley n’rye, the apples, the reserves. We got hungry children m’lord, an no food to feed ‘em. We’d normally ask our neighbour villages for food, but—’

‘Winter’s coming,’ Robb said, nodding sympathetically. ‘Maester Luwin, how much can we spare?’ The Maester contemplated, before answering, ‘I believe we have enough to spare them through the winter, if it is short.’

‘Please see to it, then.’ The peasant made many bows and thanks and was mercilessly replaced with another muddy commoner who spent a good half hour describing, in minute detail, the rape of his daughter by some minor lord. So went the seventh and eighth hours. By the ninth hour, even Robb could no longer go on, and the audience was dismissed. Theon made his way to him. _We could have gone hunting today, instead you’d rather listen to smallfolk_. He was disgruntled because, without Robb, there was little else to do but fuck whores and gloat over the shoulders of servants, and he’d done enough of both those things recently.

 He stopped just short of the high table and waited for Maester Luwin to finish speaking with Robb. He knew the Maester did not like him. The old man was cold and always persisted in giving unwanted advice. But Robb saw him as a second father, and the Maester had the respect of the family, so he kept quiet, met the advice with feigned respect and false ambivalence.

‘Theon.’

‘ _Lord_ Stark,’ he answered, smirking.

‘Gods, I need a drink.’

‘I’ll get you one, my _lord_.’ Robb was impossible to tease, but he enjoyed doing it nonetheless.

‘Not yet. I want to see Bran.’

‘Where’s Grey Wind?’

‘Hunting,’ Robb said enviously.

 

*

 

‘Do you think it’ll work?’

They were walking through the darkness, towards the ivory branches of the Godswood. Each of them held a leather flagon of mead, and it had taken Theon much cajoling and ale to get Robb to bring even that much here. When they were younger, before their maturity, Robb did not care so much about ‘duty’, ‘honour’, ‘restraint’. Or if he did, he was able to forget them temporarily for the sake of their childish mischief. They had been thick as thieves, much to Maester Luwin and Lady Stark’s concerns; getting drunk in the Godswood, flirting with the serving girls at the base of the abandoned tower, on the ground which Bran broke his back. Theon was a good reader of impulses; he knew his own, and could get Robb to tend to his. _He doesn’t listen to me now, though_.

He knew why. They were supposed to be men, not green boys.

‘Think what’ll work?’ Theon could sense his reluctance, after each step, to relive their youth and bring drink in the place his father prayed, so he pushed the conversation.

‘That saddle, the one the Imp brought plans for?’ Neither of them trusted that low creature. Robb had wanted him gone the moment he entered the hall, and Robb would be first to offer salt and bread and a warm bed for the night.

‘Mikken is wary of it, doesn’t like contraptions more complicated than swords or shields, but I think he’ll make it work. It should be ready soon; I plan to take Bran on a hunt.’ _Good. It’d be the first time since the royal visit_. Theon knew Robb had not the heart to hunt whilst his brother lay miserably bedbound, but it had left them with nothing else to do but Maester Luwin’s bidding.

They had reached the weirwood and sat down on rocks by the pool. The nights were always cold in the north, but their furs kept them warm. The air was moist, the leaves rattled above them, a racket of whispers, and the carved white-wooden face stared at them, disapprovingly, Theon guessed. He had never been spiritual, had never decided between the Drowned God, or the Old Gods, had never decided either of them. It had been a while before Theon realised neither of them had spoken or drank.

He’ll be alright, you know.’ Theon did not know what else to say. It was not like Robb to brood, least not around him. ‘Will he? He wanted to be a knight remember.’

‘He’d never have been any good at it.’ It was meant to comfort him, but Robb frowned. Theon added: ‘Arya was always better, remember.’ Robb stared at his flagon with wandering eyes, the eyes of man who had drank four flagons already. ‘He loved climbing,’ Robb said. ‘He would never fall.’

‘Why do you think he was pushed? What do you think he saw?’ Robb fingered the handle of his flagon. ‘I don’t know, I don’t want to guess.’

‘Maybe the queen was having her royal cunt—‘

‘Enough!’ Theon often forgot how quickly they had changed, from boys. How much the change occurred in Robb. It may have been a summer or two and Robb would have laughed, added, talked about the royal cunt, how good it might be. But he was an honourable son now. It was hard, Theon thought, to watch the past slowly die, here of all places, where it lived most. But he had no choice; Robb stared at the flagon, an air of unspoken wroth, then he stood up, said he was tired, and walked into the darkness.

That weirwood tree stared. It challenged him: ‘drink,’ it seemed to whisper as it’s red leaves bristled and murmured in the cold northern wind. Theon brought the flagon to his lips and finished all of it; it tasted bitter-sweet, heavy, just like the five he had before it. He had never been a spiritual man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a first for me, but I'm already enjoying it.
> 
> I will update this once a fortnight, or sooner depending on other life-commitments.
> 
> The tags are preliminary and by no means set in stone, but they do present the most key aspects of the fic.
> 
> Happy reading! :)


	2. Dark Wings, Dark Words

He was standing by the window, the wooden shutters flung open. From it he could see all the bailey, and Mikken hammering out swords. It was night, but work had to be done.

Eddard had been like a father to Theon. He had raised him, taught him, castigated him when Theon was busy being Theon. Cold lord Stark. True, he had always been withdrawn around him, though he was never as sullen as his bastard. Not cold as Snow. But Theon still hoped to be a son to him one day. A true son, at least by law. If he did not die first. If he did, Theon could be Robb’s brother-in-law. They were practically brothers already.

When he learned what the Lannisters did to Eddard, he had counselled Robb to call the banners. Not in a month, not the next day, but to send out the ravens now. Blood for blood. That old woman Luwin had cautioned against such a ‘rash’ act, and Mollen…Mollen just kept stating the obvious: ‘the Lannisters attacked.’

At least the days were no longer dull. Peasant’s had to find other ears to listen to, because Robb and himself, Mollen and Luwin spent most of the hours planning, arguing, compromising. They had at least agreed to send riders instead. Call the banners with faces, not wings, and give themselves time to organise their forces and supplies. Soon there would be war, and Theon was hungry for it.

It had left little time to hunt.

Then, the only hunt they managed, with mewling and insufferable Bran, had been a complete disaster. Theon had often thought Bran could get no worse. Then he lost the use of his legs. 

For the love he bore Robb, he never said what he thought of Bran: The child is useless. He will never amount to anything. Never accomplish anything. Just rot in a bed all day, a virgin shrieking cripple for the rest of his miserable life, while the real men ride south.

The boy had been taken hostage and Robb had been forced to surrender. They would have both died if it were not for him, with that shot and a dead wildling whore-son.

And despite this, despite what they owed him, Robb was furious. He had seen the wolf in him, howling in those sharp blue eyes. Furious based on a ‘What if?’

What if the Wall was a bridge? What if the Red Keep was blue? What if winter never came and summer never ended? Fools dwell on such things, but Theon didn’t think Robb a fool. That’s why he, in turn, was angry. It was why he could not understand his brother. Besides, it was a clear shot, and one thing was certain: if he had done nothing, they would all be dead.

Then Robb had spared that wildling woman, even given her the liberty to wander some of the grounds, work in the kitchens. Bran had even taken a liking to her, and they would talk together in the Godswood whilst she bathed. She had a quick tongue, he would give her that. But savages like her should know their place around the sons of lords.

Theon could sense it in the air outside the window of his chamber; that uncertain breeze deciding, on the cusp of snow, but no snow fell. Not yet.

‘Care to give me coin? And not on the floor this time.’

He turned to her, took in that rich red hair, and smirked, fondling the pouch at his belt that held all the coins. 

‘If I fuck you twice, does the price double?’ He said.

#

Robb was reading the letter, again. Dark wings, dark words. He realised now that he had never truly been scared. He had spent all his life pretending to be brave, but a man, his father had told him, could only prove bravery when fearful.

When old nan told her stories, that was what Robb had thought of as fear; when he had charged towards Rodrik for the first time whilst his father and mother stood watching from above; when wildings seized his brother and told him to put down his blade or they would cut his little throat. And true, he had been scared in that moment. But there are fears that burst in action, changeable as the wind; they dissipate when the safety of the hearth is found once more. Then there are those lingering fears, worries that no warmth can melt away.

This parchment, unravelled between his fingers, was both such fears. It had struck from nowhere like a dagger in the shadows, but its poisoned lingered. Every night since Maester Luwin woke him with news from Alyn, Robb had sat up until the early hours, wondering if there was someone else who should read it, someone else who would know what to do.

He wanted his mother, and his father. He wanted them to fling it into the fire out of anger, because they did not need to keep it, because they knew what to do. But mother was at the Eyrie, worryingly silent, and father…father had yet to wake. Robb tried listening to everyone’s counsel…

Yet here he sat, poring over each ink letter, drowning in a deepening fear, and wandering if dark wings brought these words at all. This letter, this ink. Here. My father. Kingslayer. Jory, Wyl, Heward, dead. The other thoughts tumbled after. If father should die—he will not die—but, if, he should die, then…He will not die. Then came the voice of Robb the Lord, I will kill every Lannister before that happens. He will not die. We will not forget. I will honour the north—

The door of his chamber opened and Robb seized the handle of his sword that lay in its scabbard on the bed.

‘What are you doing here?’ He hissed.

‘The Lannisters aren’t here yet, Robb.’ There was a look of recognition in Theon’s eyes, that perhaps he should have knocked. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ The fool added, smirking as if it were an inside joke. Robb bristled at the implication. He repeated the question, more harshly.

‘I was interrupting, wasn’t I?’ Theon’s smirk widened, as if he had perceived correctly. But his face fell when Robb got up and took off his boots.

Theon, at times, could be discerning. Most of the time, he was an arrogant letch. 

'I came here to apologise.’ Robb had undone the belt around his surcoat. He momentarily stopped, then flung the belt away.

‘I’m sorry, Robb. I only meant well. I was trying to protect you, and your brother. I know you worry about—’

‘Stop talking.’ Robb began heaving the surcoat over his shoulders, exposing the armour underneath. His chambers were silent once more, bar the fire.

‘I’m sorry, my lord.’ Robb said eventually. He began unstrapping the claps of his vambraces.

‘What?’

‘When you apologise to me, you should say, my lord.’ Robb did not have to turn around to spy the return of a smirk on Theon’s face. That smirk that found all the world and everything in it one enormous joke.

‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ Theon said very seriously. 

Robb was grateful that, for a while, the fire did most the talking. Before long, he was in just his tunic and breeches, free from the heavy fur, leather, and iron that can drown a man.

‘I never did tell you, you know.’ Theon was leaning against the wall, looking out the window, watching Mikken strike the anvil.

‘Tell me what?’

‘About that night with sweet Kyra the weasel and Bessa.’

‘I don’t know what you’re speaking of.’

‘I was about to tell you, on the day of the hunt, but Bran could hear.’ Robb was nodding, he remembered. He had silenced Theon in time.

‘You had…two women? At once?’ Robb couldn’t help but look in awe. Theon, slouched against the wall, lean and dark, was smiling arrogantly with narrow eyes. ‘How did you…?’

Theon gave a haughty chuckle and told Robb exactly how the three of them managed it. ‘You might get to try it, one day,’ he added.

‘I don’t know, it sounds expensive. Then again…’ Theon jutted from the wall at the slight; he had never made peace with the idea that a whore, the red-headed one, had been Robb’s first and never charged him, gave it him, ‘on the house’. Neither had Robb let him forget it, especially in moments like these.

‘I never asked about your first.’ Robb said, expecting it to be a silent thought. He could see Theon stiffen a little.

‘Just some thatcher’s daughter, out along the Acorn Water.’ Robb couldn’t help grinning impishly.

‘No, you told me about that time. That was with the miller’s wife.’

‘Well, yes. I told you of her, just not that she was my first.’

‘You lie, I can see it.’

‘It is no lie, she was the first.’ Then began the stalemate, Robb prying out the truth and Theon concealing it.

‘It was in the godswood, on a quilt, underneath the tree.’ Robb sat back upon his bed, puzzled.

‘Was she…’

‘She wasn’t ugly, if that’s your meaning.’

‘Then why hide it? There’s nothing to be ashamed of so far as I can tell.’

‘I didn’t think you’d like to hear.’ It took Robb off-guard. Theon had never made an effort to hide his conquests. He had boasted of them openly and numerously.

‘By the seven, why?’ He could see the discomfort in his friend that trespassed their normal talk. It was strange, to Robb, seeing Theon this way.

‘Because of the last time we were in the godswood, with the mead…’

Robb realised that Theon had not been looking at Mikken and his anvil at all, but had been looking towards the godswood from the window.

‘This was in the past, when we were young, foolish.’

‘I became a man that day, Robb. We’ve both been men for years.’ Robb disagreed. Maester Luwin would not say it, but Robb could see it in his eyes too, when he had decided to call the banners. Perhaps I’m still a boy. The voice of Robb the Lord interrupted once again, No longer, no longer. There is no choice in the matter.

'It’s no concern of mine,’ was all he said. Then the fire talked for a little while more.

Eventually, Theon left, and Robb crawled into bed and began reading the dark words yet again in the firelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised! It has occured to me: I have been attempting to follow the books, but have found my memory mixing-in features of the tv show. I will try to stick to the books where I can, but it has been sooo long.


	3. Casus Belli

It had seemed an eternity since Theon had last been between the legs of a whore. His favourite, the red-headed whore, had travelled south. It was as if they had a second sense, these whores, that all the cocks were marching south, to war. Winterfell was barren, a true waste among the grim bracken, heather, and vast expanses of highland bog. It was so dry he had even considered fucking the wildling bitch. _She would bite your cock off_. Theon shrugged away the thought and reminded himself that animals like her didn’t deserve the touch of Westerosi men, especially the sons of lords.

‘But I could taste the blood,’ said Bran. He was sat beside Maester Luwin who was attempting to teach him the places of all the weirwoods of Westeros. The Maester had been of Lady Stark’s household, but he had decided to teach the boy of his father’s faith whilst they all sat here, idle, waiting for the Warden of the North to die. Theon was practising at arrows, imagining the straw targets at wilding bastards.

‘Bran, dreams are powerful things. They have long been mysteries to maesters. But do you know how many men have been misled by them?’

‘But this one felt real! I was running, I could smell fear, I—’

‘Baelor the Blessed dreamt that he could speak to Seven, and Aerys the Mad dreamt of fire and had people burned for crimes he had dreamt they committed. You must never forget what is real and what is dream.’ Theon pictured the boy sullenly looked downward, like he always does when he lies. He could not see it himself because his back faced the Maester and the boy, as he nocked, drew, and loosed. The barb stuck just a few inches above the centre. _A throat, bloody, leaking._

Despite what he had told Robb in his chambers, Theon was not at all sorry that he had saved two Starks, and their wolves, that day of the hunt in the forest. But he knew Robb would not hear him. Besides, he was preoccupied with ruling the North. _We should be marching south. By now, we would be at the Twins._

Maester Luwin had talked and talked. Always seemed to get Robb to himself and within days he had convinced him to wait, or at least, mobilise more slowly. _Too soon words of war, become acts of war_ , Theon thought as he nocked again. _Killing Jory, attacking Lord Stark, are these only words of war, then?_ But Robb had listened, chosen Luwin, the old woman. Theon had no doubts however; all the lords would be here soon, whether the Lannisters found a way of killing lord Stark or not. It was a matter of time, and they had lost the pre-emptive advantage.

Slowly men had been trickling passed the gates, but their numbers barely reached two thousand, and Theon guessed the Karstarks were sitting in Karhold with well over one thousand alone. There were rumours from travellers along the Kingsroad that the Westerlands were mobilising. The mighty Lord Tywin was pulling together forces from across his lands. Theon had wondered what it would be like, as the King, to stand between the cold Lord Stark and the lion that was his Queen. The single thought of her stirred his manhood and he realised then how truly long it had been.

He heard Bran answering the Maester behind him.

‘The Isle of Faces,’ the boy was answering. The Maester hummed an approval before double-tapping a cane against a map that laid across the table. ‘And what is the name of the waters that surround the island?’ There was no answer for a time, though Theon was concentrating on his next shot.

‘I was never good with a bow,’ Bran eventually said. Theon hit the eye of his target and he struck the air in ferocious pride. He turned to see if they had seen, and indeed both Bran and the Maester were watching him, the child pale and stolid, and the old man with that familiar cool disapproval.

#

It was always an ill sign, to be roused from bed by a clamour. He had thrown his hands about looking for a blade in the dark, only to realise he had left it on the floor on the other side of the room. He was ready to leap for it when he caught the voices. _Not an attack_ , he realised. It was the quiet sort of commotion, the sounds of clothes hastily dragging along the stone floors and the numerous groans of doors carefully opening and even more gently closing.

He was already in his smallclothes as he climbed from the bed. He quickly threw on a surcoat and left for Robb’s chambers; it mattered little where the trouble was because it was sure to head there. But before he could reach even the corridor by Robb’s chambers Hal turned him round, sending him to the great hall.

It was a private assembly; only Robb, Bran, and Hodor who carried him, Luwin, Hal, himself and few others were gathered at a single table, all as hastily dressed as himself. Robb held a letter, crushed in his fist, and Bran was watching his brother intently, fearful and pleading.

‘What is it? What’s the news?’ Was he dead? Had Tywin attacked? I knew this would soon happen.

‘The news is ill, from Kingslanding,’ Hal said. Theon bit back a retort; he wanted to tell Hal that that much was fucking clear. Maester Luwin approached his ear so not to repeat the subject to the Starks unnecessarily, murmuring calmly and with severity.

‘The King is dead and lord Stark has been taken prisoner, of this much we are certain. Lady Stark and Robb have been summoned by the new King, to bend the knee.’

‘Don’t go Robb, please, don’t go!’ Theon felt as if had misunderstood something; Robb would never be fool enough to go to King’s Landing, where they had killed his grandfather, and his uncle.

Maester Luwin interjected, ‘Robb I caution you—anything you do now will bear greatly on the safety of your father and your sisters.’

‘I can no longer sit and do nothing, Maester. Where is Arya? What have they done to her? If I go to them, they will kill me, and my mother. My father could already…he could…’

‘Father is not dead!’ Bran screamed and Theon wished to boy were gone, quieten that shrill green voice of his.

Finally Theon said, ‘If you’re not going to bend the knee at King’s Landing, where are you going?’ He couldn’t hide the hope in his question. Robb was looking at them all. ‘To Riverrun, that’s where the Lannisters will strike first. But I will set my father free.’ Theon smirked, swallowing down the sweetness of Maester Luwin’s pained expression.

‘Robb, think upon what such an act would do—’

‘I have give it much thought; I have listened to everyone. The North has been dishonoured. My father and sisters are taken captive and the Lannisters are ready for the fight; they will wage war against us whether I march south or not.’ The old man could sense Robb’s determination.

‘At least send a capable commander in your stead—’

‘I don’t want to go, I _have_ to go.’ Theon smirked all the more because he knew Robb was lying. He dearly, dearly wished to go. Robb continued, ‘My father passed the sentence, then swung the sword. When he fought for Robert, against the Targaryens and the Greyjoys, he fought in the vanguard. He was not leagues away, hiding behind castle walls.’ Theon ignored the reminder of his father’s rebellion, did not allow his discomfort to be seen.

‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Robb,’ the Maester calmly urged.

'There will be Rickon and Bran.’

‘They are boys.’

‘You treat me the same, and Winterfell has not fallen, the North has not slipped into the sea.’ Bran was shuffling about, his arms carried his small torso forward as he rocked panic. ‘Robb, you have to stay here, with me. Mother left you in charge, she didn’t want you to abandon us.’ Robb was looking at his brother, and Theon realised maybe he had been telling only half-lies; the iron grip on Sansa’s letter slacken and it was as if he wanted to carry Bran with him to the Godswood and stay there till winter was over. _Robb the Lord knows his duty._ Theon had learned through experience.

‘I don’t want to go, but I _have_ to,’ Robb half-lied again.

‘Please Robb, please!’ The boy was growing agitated, and Theon again wished for an end to the childish squealing.

‘Bran, it is perhaps best that you go back to bed. Hodor—’

‘I won’t sleep!’

‘Go to bed Bran,’ said Robb the Lord. Theon could see the water in the boy’s eyes, and as much as he wanted the nuisance to go, he understood momentarily in those eyes that feeling, upon hearing Robb the Lord, that Robb the Boy was dead. Sometimes Theon looked at Robb the same way, as if he was beginning to know someone else.

Bran scowled but knew he had no choice. He couldn’t even resist with kicks or punches, like Rickon would; his legs hung limp as he was hauled up by Hodor and his arms clung to the giant simpleton’s neck. Then like a sack of linen, he was carried away, his face a mixture of tears and scorn.

Robb turned to Hal when his brother had been carried away. ‘Hal, in the morn call the banners. All of them.’

‘Yes m’lord.’

‘We’ll give the Lannisters their due, and more,’ said Theon, grinning.

‘If that is all settled, Robb, may we speak alone?’ Theon immediately scowled. The Maester was an excellent word-smith, and he had managed to change Robb’s mind before. He had made a leap in hope at the prospect of heading south, finally, to show Westeros that the North was not to be spat on, chained, locked in dungeons. He could feel doubt slipping in, snatching away the chance.

‘Very well. Hal. Theon.’ Theon nodded but hovered, even when Hal was making for the great hall’s doors. He knew if he could be the one alone with Robb he could maintain his brother’s resolve, caution him against the Maester’s overzealous caution. Keep the fire of his fury against the Lannisters hot.

He realised Robb and the Maester were looking at him, his brother confused, and the Maester, as if he were some dog that behaved itself ill in front of its master. He knew he must leave them alone; all he could do was hope, for perhaps the first time, that Robb was ready to forever become Robb the Lord.

#

‘I pulled you from your mother, Robb.’

‘You’ve told me many a time.’

‘Your father left you to rule Winterfell in his absence, and you will march south?’

‘Yes. I must.’

‘Do not take Theon with you.’ The imperative caught Robb by surprise, like an arrow from a bush by the roadside. The Maester was reading him. ‘I know that he is your friend—’

‘A brother, to me.’

‘Theon cannot be expected to do the right thing, even for himself.’ Robb chewed his lip. ‘Are you speaking of Theon, or of me?’

‘You have your mother’s wit, Robb, but Theon cannot be trusted. He cannot be counted upon, even by those closest to him.’

Robb had felt the palpable dislike his mother, Luwin, even his father at times, had had for their kraken ward. Theon was untamed at times, but Robb knew, deep within his character, that Theon was loyal and honourable. ‘Theon is not his father, Maester. Give him the chance to demonstrate it.’ Luwin was not a fool, and though he was overcautious, a wise man would always heed his counsel. But Robb knew that in this matter, Luwin had failed to understand Theon. Luwin was not there when they had charged at each other with wooden swords and beat each other bloody, just to impress the scullery girls who were watching them; when they had drunk themselves stupid and tumbled into Winterfell’s moat one night; nor when they had thrown stones at the loose tiles of the abandoned tower to see who could loosen one and make it shatter against the ground. Luwin had only been able judge Theon with the memory of Balon and his bloody war.

Theon would _never_ betray him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify here: the banners are called in the books following ned's imprisonment, and not when he is attacked by Jaime Lannister. My bad in the previous chapter. I'm not trying to draw things out, but was attempting to make the banner-call more accurate in-line witht the books. Truly, they'll be off!
> 
> I could not get rid of the idea of an army of cocks marching south. Apologies to literally everyone for my vulgar and stupid sense of humour.


End file.
